My Old Aches Become New Again
by rayychel infinity
Summary: Blaine is mentor to Kurt for the 55th Annual Hunger Games and the night before the Games finds them talking about more than just strategy.


**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own _Glee_, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title is from "Where Did The Party Go" by Fall Out Boy.

Tumblr is here (endofadream)

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It's four in the morning and Blaine can't sleep.

He lies in bed in his room, staring at the ceiling. Around him the blankets are heavy, lush, much more luxurious and comfortable than even his own sheets back at home in the Victor's Village, but even that can't call upon sleep. Then again, Blaine has never slept well in the Capitol before.

Every time he swallows it lumps up, gets caught in his throat. All he can think of is that tomorrow the Games begin; tomorrow all of the tributes will be shipped off to the arena and Blaine will be left here in the Capitol, pandering to the wealthy and easily-besotted. It's his second time doing it; it should be easy enough by now. But it never is, and every year just reminds Blaine more and more how despicable this society is, how despicable _he_ is for winning. No one decent ever wins the Games. It's a fact. Blaine's own hands are far from clean.

He turns over, like he's trying to escape the memories, and stares out at the skyline view of the Capitol. The city never sleeps, and coming from a District like Eight the Capitol's endless sea of lights, its endless parties and celebrations, always amaze Blaine. He wonders what it's like for these citizens, these families who have never had to stand under a hot sun with their hearts in their throats as their children get whisked away; what these children, who have never heard their name called from that stage, think, feel. They have been brought up to love the Games, too. Blaine has seen them in the audience and sometimes with the people he tries to get sponsors from. It never fails to bring up the bile, acidic and burning, to the back of Blaine's throat.

Whenever Blaine closes his eyes he sees only flashes of this year's Reaping. It's bad enough knowing the people whose names are called; worse yet is seeing the reaction from their families, the grief and despair that twist and pull at the skin, the awful knowledge that the odds of the victor coming from this District are slim. Sewing isn't usually very handy in the arena.

But for Blaine to see Kurt Hummel up there—Kurt, who is only one year away from being free of the Reaping; Kurt, who has his dad to take care of; Kurt, whom Blaine has been in love with for almost six years now—it had nearly broken him.

Blaine grips the Capitol's sheets in his fists, screws his eyes shut. He rolls over, away from the window and away from the city of people who care only about the impending bloodshed, not the kids' lives who are about to be sacrificed to prove…what? That there is no hope for a change? That, after fifty-five years, no one is brave enough to take a stand?

Fifteen minutes have gone by. He stares now at the smooth expanse of wall on the other side of the room. To calm himself down, he thinks about the progress of Kurt's training and mentoring.

Kurt's strengths are nearly identical to Blaine's own: speed, cunning, agility, an uncanny ability to manipulate. But unlike Blaine, Kurt lacks likeability. He is too wary, too cautious, no matter how many times Blaine has told him, reminded him, that the way Blaine won his own games was deceiving the Career pack for as long as he could until they got down to the very end. The rest…he doesn't like to think about that. He's tried to forget but the ever-persistent nightmares make that impossible. Sleep syrup only makes them worse, makes them last longer until he's back in that arena, blood splattered over his jumpsuit and shining off the cold steel of the pickaxe in his hand.

Blaine thins his lips, shakes his head and sits up, the covers falling down to his waist. He can't afford to fall back into this now, not when Kurt's life is in his hands. He has to be on his game from now until…until he isn't needed to be anymore.

He flips the covers off his lap, twists and sets his feet on the smooth hardwood floor. It still amazes him that it's not like home, nowhere near the rough-cut, uneven wood floors of their little houses. He pads quietly into the main area, looking around. It's always so different after dark—it's almost unassuming, almost normal. Blaine tries to picture a time when this scene wouldn't be anything _but_ normal to anyone, but he comes up with nothing.

Blaine takes a seat on the couch facing the mantle, leaning back and staring up at the rough brick where, just a day ago, Kurt's score of a nine had been broadcast. It had surprised everyone, including Rachel Berry, Kurt's District partner, who had gotten only a six. Kurt had hugged Blaine and it had taken everything Blaine had not to cry.

Blaine hadn't seen, but he had heard from the mentors of the other tributes that Kurt is okay with a bow, good with knives, and amazing with a sword. That's good. If Kurt is handy with a weapon he can last longer if he doesn't make any immediate allies.

But Blaine knows those games, the types of kids that will be there and how it works. He's warned Kurt that if he doesn't get to the cornucopia first to run as far away from it as possible. If Kurt can survive the bloodshed then he has at least a few more days.

There is something inside Blaine, though, that tells him that Kurt won't listen. Kurt can be stubborn, hotheaded, will do what _he_ thinks is right no matter what other people tell him. Blaine has seen this in person at school, in the factories when their shifts had lined up. It's what he's always admired most about Kurt.

Sighing, Blaine stares up at the ceiling. It's almost impossible now to assume that he's going to get back to sleep before Kurt and Rachel have to leave. He gets up to order a cup of coffee when he hears it, soft footsteps coming from down the hall. Blaine smiles sadly, punches in another order just before Kurt appears.

"Couldn't sleep?" Blaine asks.

Kurt looks up in surprise, his lips parted. His hair is a mess, but there is evidence that he had attempted to flatten it with his fingers before coming out here. He's clad in soft silk pajamas that make him look younger than he is. His eyes are red-rimmed and slightly swollen.

"No," Kurt says, shaking his head. He hesitates, looking at Blaine then the floor then back at Blaine, before finally taking a seat on the couch and running his palms over his thighs. "I know I should, but I just…I can't."

His words are heavy, filled to almost overflowing with the things that Blaine knows he doesn't want to say. _I don't want to die. I don't want Rachel to die. I'm scared to go in there because I don't know what to do._

Blaine's order arrives before he can say anything in return, and he takes both mugs from the Capitol attendant before handing one to Kurt, who takes it with raised brows. Blaine takes a slow sip from his own, his mouth quirking up. "I didn't poison it, you know."

That seems to break the ice and Kurt rolls his eyes before obligingly taking a sip. When he does his eyes immediately widen and he lowers his mug, looking at Blaine with disbelief. "You know my coffee order?"

Capitol coffee is an entirely different species compared to District coffee, which is little more than bitterly-flavored water with dark grounds floating in it. Capitol coffee is heavy, rich, and the possibilities of flavors are endless. Blaine still prefers his dark with a pinch of cinnamon. Kurt, however, had fallen in love the first day on the train with the rich thickness of mocha, and it's something that Blaine hasn't forgotten.

"Of course I do," Blaine says, smiling a little more genuinely this time. He thinks that Kurt wants to say something, his brows furrowing as his face gets pensive, but the moment passes and all Kurt does is take another sip of his coffee in silence, his eyes staring at the wall but unseeing.

Blaine sits down next to Kurt and they lapse into silence, the only noise coming when they take sips of their coffee. The horizon is beginning to get lighter and Blaine's stomach knots and twists. He takes a deep drink of his coffee, the burn distracting him. They don't need to think about this right now.

The night before his Games Blaine had been in the same place as Kurt: terrified, angry, numb. He remembers the feeling all too well, remembers being unable to sleep, unable to eat. He remembers being certain that he'd never come home, never see his family, his friends—_Kurt_—again. Back then Kurt had only been a schoolmate, a kind-of friend that Blaine didn't know much about.

Now Kurt is…he's almost like family. Blaine has been training him, comparing him, grooming him. There are no more secrets between them, not at this point.

"As your mentor," Blaine says, looking out at the skyline, "I should tell you to try and at least get a little bit of sleep."

"But…?"

Blaine turns, smiles. "As your friend I'll admit to you that I have trouble sleeping in the Capitol, too."

Kurt sets his empty mug down on the floor and draws his knees up to his chest, hooking his chin on top of them. "I can't stop thinking about my dad. We had thought…we were sure I was going to be safe. No one in our family has ever been Reaped."

"You can still win," Blaine says softly, but the words taste bitter, wrong on his tongue. That's the point of the Games, to win, but to people like him and Kurt, winning means changing yourself forever.

Kurt scoffs, wraps his arms around his shins. "You and I both know that the odds are not in my favor, Blaine."

"Don't say that," Blaine replies sharply, his eyes narrowing. He sets his mug down and turns to face Kurt. "You're not helpless, Kurt. I've heard what you can do with a sword. If you stay smart and keep your head you can make it through this. You can come home and see your dad again. You can—"

He's cut off by Kurt's lips on his and Kurt's hands on his face. Blaine thinks he lets out a small sound of surprise, his mouth opening, and then Kurt's tongue is brushing tentatively against his, their lips moving clumsily together. Blood rushes in his ears, drowns out everything else. Kurt's fingertips are calloused but his fingers are smooth.

Then they're both parting, both panting as they tumble back. Blaine knows his own eyes are wide, can see Kurt' and the way the light reflects off of them and makes them sparkle and glisten and change colors a hundred times in just those few seconds.

"Kurt," Blaine says, his voice rough. His lips still tingle.

"I don't want to leave you."

"What? Kurt, I…"

"I've liked you since we were kids," Kurt admits. Tears shine in his eyes but his voice stays steady, true, even as his hand trembles. "Ever since you got my coat back from Dave."

Blaine blinks, his lips parting. Kurt still remembers that? It had been…god, that was years ago. Blaine was twelve and Kurt was eleven, and Kurt had been wearing a jacket that he'd made at home. He was proud of it, and Blaine remembers thinking that Kurt should be. It was beautiful, finely stitched from true, natural-born talent. And when Dave Karofsky had taken it Blaine had just known that he had to be the one to get it back. He'd gotten beat up over it, but he gave the jacket to Kurt—and that's when he'd figured it out, finally realized what these strange feelings were every time he looked at Kurt.

That year Dave had been Reaped into the Games. He never came back.

Heat builds up, swoops low in Blaine's belly; the tears return, but this time they're impossible to blink back and before Blaine lets himself think about it he's surging forward, pressing Kurt onto the couch and kissing him like he's never kissed anyone before.

There is so much riding on this one moment, suspended in the limbo between night and dawn. They don't have forever—hell, they don't even have two hours. Soon Kurt will be whisked away to the hovercraft. He'll be taken god knows where and forced to be put through god knows what. The odds aren't in his favor, but that doesn't mean anything, especially not now when Kurt's hands are gripping Blaine's back and he's whimpering into Blaine's mouth, pressing up and seeking, chasing Blaine's lips when Blaine goes to change angles.

Kurt may not come home after today. He may even die today. But if there's one thing Blaine knows about Kurt it's that he's strong, resilient, and tough.

When Blaine pulls back more of the room is bathed in light. Everyone else will be getting up soon. The dewy light of morning plays over Kurt's face, highlights hair and cheekbones and wide, scared eyes, and he is truly beautiful at this moment, more beautiful than anyone else that Blaine has ever seen.

"You have to come back," he finds himself whispering, tracing down the soft lines of Kurt's face.

Kurt swallows hard, wets his lips and grabs Blaine's wrist, holds him where his fingers curve over Kurt's jaw. "I want to. I don't"—he chokes back a noise, closing his eyes—"I don't want to miss this."

Blaine's throat tightens. He chokes back tears, leans down to press his lips to Kurt's once more, trying to memorize the shape, the feel, the taste, just in case. "You won't. Just remember your training, and remember what I've taught you." He takes Kurt's hand, threads their fingers together. "I believe in you, Kurt."

What he doesn't say is _come home to me_. There is no room to be selfish, not when things are like this.

They sit, not saying anything else, as the sun slowly climbs higher in the sky.


End file.
